


That time in-between

by queen_jadis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ALL THE FLUFF, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-12 23:16:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9094981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queen_jadis/pseuds/queen_jadis
Summary: Christmas is over. The new year has yet to arrive. John and Sherlock spend a quiet evening at home during those odd in-between days.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, I started a really fun little fic to post for Christmas. It involved all sorts of Christmas rituals and getting together via spankings (and seriously, what could be a better start to a relationship than a vigorous spanking?) and smut. Lots of smut. But then life got in the way. Or Christmas got in the way. Or something. I have a vague recollection of frantic gift wrapping and dinner parties and whatnot, and my fic didn't get finished in time for Christmas.
> 
> And THEN. Then the BBC PR department happened. And all of us have been huddled together under our shock blankets, breathing into paper bags, since they descended on us. Trailers, promo-pics, interviews, score titles... It has been relentless. 
> 
> And out of this - and the feeling that this is the last chance to write in this universe as we know it - has been born this piece of... unashamed fluff. Okay, maybe a little shamefaced fluff. Because I didn't think I was the type to do fluff. But it turns out that my personal shock blanket is made of fluff. (The word 'fluff' starts to look really strange when you end several sentences in a row with it. Fluff. Fluff. Fluff.). So here it is. Fluff. No plot. Hardly any porn either. Just... 2500 words where everything can be uncomplicated and happy for our boys. Because I have a feeling they're about to be put through the wringer in series four, poor dears.
> 
> Hopefully the romantic Christmas spanking can still be written in time for next Christmas, eh?

“What’s that?”

Sherlock was looking at John over the rim of his book and John realised that he’d just chuckled out loud.

“Nothing. Just one of those memes on Facebook.” John was slouched low in his chair, his new tablet in his lap. It was quiet in 221B Baker Street, the fuss following Christmas had died down and in its place was a cosy calm. John Watson felt pretty content about things. He was even optimistic about getting the hang of using the tablet before the year was over.

Sherlock sighed.

“It’s pronounced “meme,” John. The es are like the ones in “genes.” We’ve been over this. I can’t have a  _blogger_  who…”

“Yeah, okay, don’t be mean.” John reached for his mug of some cinnamon scented holiday blend that Sherlock refused to acknowledge as proper tea. John liked it, though. Not everyone had a metabolism that could handle two cinnamon lattes per day like some lanky gits apparently did.

The pack was almost over, he’d switch back to his regular old PG tips soon enough and the thought was bittersweet. Normality and routine was nice, but this had actually been the best Christmas John could remember. He’d miss it, in the greyness of January.

“Me? Mean?” Sherlock waved a hand, as if wounded by the mere suggestion. “I’m just trying to educate you.”

“Yeah, sure, it’s a thankless job trying to civilise me, I’m sure everyone wishes I could be just a bit more like you, eh?”

John smiled at Sherlock, who thankfully didn’t seem to take offense.

“Most people would be improved by being more like me,” Sherlock agreed with a tilt of his head.

John chuckled. This was nice. Just sitting here, teasing each other, drinking questionable tea and listening to Christmas music. It had been one hell of a year, but it was almost over now and it looked like they’d make it through it okay. More than okay. Back together in Baker Street.

“Actually, I’m not even sure if it is a meme,” John said as he peered at the screen. “Does it count as a meme if it’s just a picture with a joke written on it?”

Sherlock sighed and covered his eyes, as if the burden of technologically inept, social-media blind John Watson was just too much for one man to bear.

“Anyway,” John continued undeterred, “whatever it is, it’s a bit clever. It’s about how Santa always tells you to be good all year, right? But then there’s this whole week at the end of the year which is after Christmas but before the new year. And maybe…well, the wording sort of suggests that this week doesn’t count, doesn’t it? You can do whatever you like without any consequences.”

“Consequences from… Santa Claus?”

“Mmm. I guess.”

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair.

“I didn’t realise you lived in such constant fear of Santa Claus,” Sherlock said with a near invisible smirk. “So what would you like to do during your immunity from imaginary childhood concepts, then?”

John could feel a smile tug at his lips.

“Santa isn’t imaginary.”

“Oh? So he actually sees you when you’re sleeping, he truly knows when you’re awake?”

“Ah, look who didn’t delete Christmas songs! Now, that proves that you think Santa is important. This is positively sweet!”

John stretched out his legs towards the fire, feeling happy and content. And although Sherlock wasn’t smiling, there was a twinkle in his eye that showed that he wasn’t bored either.

“Santa,” Sherlock said, “sounds, in this case, more like my brother than any benevolent distributor of judgment with questionable dress sense. Which is a chilling thought.”

“Distributor of judgement and  _presents_ ,” John corrected. “Don’t forget the presents. Mycroft isn’t big on presents.”

“True. His assistant usually buys them.”

“In that case his assistant probably hates us.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock eyed the cage standing on a plastic sheet in the corner. The pet otter that Mycroft had sent them for the holiday splashed happily in his abundant pool.

Apparently Mycroft’s mystery assistant didn’t only hate John and Sherlock but also held an intense dislike of otters. That was the only explanation for condemning this poor bugger to live out the rest of his days in 221B.

John had promised to take him to a petting zoo in the new year and Sherlock was plotting revenge for next year’s gift exchange. So far the best ideas had included a surprise striptease sent to the Diogenes club at tea time and a botox gift-card. Sherlock assured John that the botox suggestion would make Mycroft so paranoid about his looks that a long internal debate filled with doubts about bluffs and double bluffs would surely end with Mycroft actually redeeming the card, thus providing Sherlock with ammunition for years to come.

John could hardly wait – although he was personally rooting for the stripper-idea.

“But just think…” John said. “A whole week of total immunity. We could do anything in the world. No consequences. “

“Wait, so law enforcement is in on this immunity deal with Santa?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “The plot thickens.”

“Don’t spoil it,” John said as he nudged Sherlock with a socked foot. “What would you do? Anything at all.”

“Anything?”

“Deepest, darkest, most improper wishes.”

As John finished speaking their eyes met and something shifted in the room. Something in the wording, something in the touch, something tilted.

They’d moved from casual banter and into… something else. Because now the silliness was gone from the conversation. The levity had evaporated.

And Sherlock’s face was moving in interesting ways as he pondered the question.

As if he was going over all the things the two of them had done over the years. All the things that had happened without the law ever catching up on them. Property destruction, burglaries, forgeries… And worse.

Santa surely didn’t approve of that.                                                                                                         

 “Well, in such special circumstances it would have to be something truly… outrageous,” Sherlock said in a low voice. “Something you’d never even think of doing at any other time.”

John hummed and nodded.

He noticed that the CD that had been rattling around in their stereo had gone quiet. There was no sound in their living room, except for the cackling in the fire. The lights on the Christmas tree were the only electrical lighting in the room, twinkling happily, not knowing that their season was quickly coming to an end. Tomorrow they’d return to their dusty box.

But tonight everything still felt magical and beautiful. This odd, in-between time hovering between Christmas and a brand new year stretched out between them. It felt like they were floating in a place that didn’t properly exist. A place of immunity.

And Sherlock was staring at John. Maybe even holding his breath.

While both of them pondered what would be truly outrageous.

Sherlock licked his lips.

“But what if it isn’t Santa Claus you’re worried about?”

“What do you mean?” John could hear his voice as if it was coming from a distance.

“I mean,” said Sherlock, “what if you don’t care two hoots for Santa Claus? What if you need immunity from someone else?” His voice dropped even lower. “What if the most outrageous thing you could think of isn’t an offence against Santa, but rather someone else?”

Reginald, the otter, made a disgusting sound in the corner. One of the herring John had put in there with him had presumably been decapitated.

Neither man glanced at the cage. John didn’t dare breathe.

It had been an odd year, this. Filled with drama and horrors and unpleasantness. One of those years where you find yourself thinking again and again “surely things cannot get any worse than this?” and then they do.

But in the end, it had all turned out for the best. When the pieces fell to the ground they slotted together. Into something new but still recognizable. Something lovely, even, but fragile. Like it was yet to be completed.

“I’m sure…” John cleared his throat. “I’m sure that you’ll be able to find a loophole. You usually are. Somehow. In this case I’m guessing you’d be able to persuade the relevant parties to your way of thinking. Maybe about the Santa immunity actually being universal. For those seven days.”

“Really?” Sherlock’s eyes never left John’s. “You’re sure?”

John gave a shaky nod.

Something had been changing between them for a while. Something unspoken, something inevitable had been on the brink of happening for weeks. Months, even. Perhaps years.

John hadn’t known that this stupid meme – joke – whatever – would be the thing that pushed them over the edge, although he wasn’t particularly surprised that a catalyst had turned up.

Because this was it. He was absolutely sure that this was the moment. The moment they’d both been… not waiting for, exactly, but anticipating. He’d felt its presence thrumming beneath his skin every day for ages. It had been just out of reach. Lurking at the edges of every smile, of every accidental touch, of every kindness shown. It had been there in the bow on the Christmas present John had found at the edge of his bed a couple of days ago. It had been there every time Sherlock’s craving for Chinese gave way for John’s craving for Indian. It had been there in their toothbrushes, standing side by side in the mug in the bathroom.

It had been there, that awful night. When John had cried in Sherlock’s arms and Sherlock hadn’t said a word. Only held him so tight that John knew that he’d stay for as long as John needed him to and then never mention it again.

And yet…

And yet John hadn’t been absolutely sure that the moment would ever arrive. Had almost begun to accept that they’d stay in this strange, in-between state for the rest of their days. Somewhere between friends and lovers. Lovers who didn’t kiss, friends that sat a bit too close to each other on the sofa. Flatmates who would die for each other.

But now it was here and he could feel wild joy and hesitant excitement curl up in his chest.

“Yeah,” John whispered. “I’m sure.”

He leaned forward in his chair, until his knees tipped over and onto the floor. In another situation with someone else, John might have waited for Sherlock to make the final step. He might have sat there and watched him struggle, thinking that this was Sherlock’s move and he wouldn’t interfere.

But this wasn’t like that. 

John now flattered himself that he knew a thing or two about loving someone. A big part of it was helping your loved one when they were struggling. To make the hard things easy for them. Sherlock had already taken them this far. He didn’t need to take them the rest of the way by himself.

So John placed a hand on Sherlock’s knee to stabilise himself and looked up at him.

“Yeah,” he repeated slowly. “I’m very, very sure.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and gave a shaky nod. 

And in a move that was the most outrageous thing John Watson had ever done – he reached out his hand and touched Sherlock’s cheek with his fingertips.

They had touched often before. Fuck, they’d carried each other before. They’d held each other up, they’d helped each other undress, they’d run across London while holding hands.

But still, this felt like he was touching Sherlock for the first time. His fingertips tingled where they touched the warm skin.  A soft whimper escaped Sherlock when John allowed his fingers to trace his jawline all the way back to the thin, sensitive skin of his neck and then glide into Sherlock’s curls.

“Is this okay?” John asked.

Sherlock didn’t open his eyes. But he nodded. They were so close that John could smell his skin. He could feel his shuddering breath, he could see the flush on his cheeks.

Three continents, John thought distantly. Countless relationships. A marriage. And still – still this felt new. And exciting.

He jolted when he felt the hesitant touch of fingers near the hem of his jumper. His breath hitched and his own hands reacted before he could make a conscious decision. He fumbled for Sherlock’s shirt, timidity quickly giving way for urgency.

“Sherlock?” he rasped. “I’m going to… I should probably tell you that this is kind of the point of no return, right about now. This will change things. I’m …”

But this time it was Sherlock moving them the rest of the way. His hands clutched John’s jumper and then their lips were finally touching.

John had never really understood the phrase about going weak in the knees – but he did now. The sheer relief of it was mind-boggling. It felt like they were releasing more than a century of pent up emotion and desire. He felt dizzy, overcome – and incredibly, overwhelmingly aroused and happy at the same time.

Sherlock’s lips were warm, his tongue soft and his taste… Christ, John prided himself on having a way with words but his brain was going offline.

He did manage to register that this didn’t feel odd, though, and  _that_ was a bit odd. There was no little voice at the back of his head going: “Christ, you’re kissing  _Sherlock_. You are  _kissing_  your best friend. That’s his hand, making its way down towards your…”

There was no conflict in this. Nothing foreign or alien. Just joy and relief. And arousal. Quite a bit of that.

The  _sounds_  Sherlock was making. Christ. They were sounds of disbelief, sounds of interest, sounds of greed. Of course Sherlock would be greedy in this situation, John thought with a gasp, as Sherlock’s lips locked over his pulse point. His eyes fluttered shut and he moaned helplessly when Sherlock slid a hand under his jumper and over his skin. 

“Sherlock?” His voice sounded distant to his own ears and he cleared his throat. “Should we move this to a bedroom?”

“Ah, my conductor of light.” Sherlock didn’t lift his face from John’s neck, but John could hear the smile in his voice.

“Good to know that this won’t, ngh, stop you from mocking me.”

“Bed,” Sherlock agreed, finally daring to let his hand trail down below John’s waistband. “Come on.”

The hand on John’s arse certainly wasn’t motivating him to get up and move anywhere, but he still struggled to his feet, tugging Sherlock with him.

They stumbled towards Sherlock’s room, clumsy and un-coordinated, unable to keep their hands off each other.

When they reached the door Sherlock pushed John towards the wall and claimed his mouth again.

“By the way,” John gasped between kisses, “I really don’t think that Santa would’ve taken offense at this, no matter the time of year. Christ, do that again.”

“Mmhm,” Sherlock said against his lips, grinding his hips against John's in a way that made it obvious that the bed would come in handy sooner than later. “But I wasn’t really that fussed about  _his_  opinion, was I?”

 

* * *

 

Reginald the otter munched on his herring, grabbed his favourite stone and decided to take a short nap as the humans had finally left him alone. Then, he thought, he might start plotting his escape from this blasted cage. He was sure he'd heard somewhere recently that these days there was some sort of an immunity deal going on.

Surely the city’s exterminators were in on the thing? He'd heard the Thames was lovely this time of year.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a native English speaker and this hasn't been beta read. Please, don't hesitate to point out any mistakes in the comments - I'd feel better being able to correct them :)


End file.
